Sometimes You Only Get One Shot

I’m in a weird mood today.  I don’t know what it is but I’m going to roll with it. 

A memory from long ago is stuck in my mind.  I don’t think about it often, but for some reason it’s here.  So I’m going to do the only thing I know how, write about it. 

Sometimes you only get one shot… 

High school wasn’t fun for me.  It was a living hell, but I did it all to myself.  I don’t have time to get into the back story, but I’m sure more posts will come to flush things out.  This writing thing has a way of unlocking hidden doors in my past. 

What you need to know is that I spent my entire senior year in outpatient rehab for Cocaine addiction and a whole other slew of drugs at 17 years old.  If you’re young (which I doubt you are if you’re reading this), I highly recommend you do not go this route.  Only pain and suffering will follow. 

But that is where I had landed myself.  And what I’m about to tell you I’m not proud of, but it’s the truth and the cards have already fallen as they may. 

At that age, I didn’t look at rehab as a chance to change.  What I saw rehab as, was an institution that was trying to take away my freedom.  It was a system to beat; not an ally to improve my life.  Because I believed that I didn’t need any improvement.  I believed that I wasn’t an addict, selling drugs was okay and I should be able to live my life how I wanted.  Why wouldn’t adults just leave me the fuck alone?   

Yep… the beauty of adolescence and a tainted mind. 

The unique thing I had going for me, was that I was a gifted student with some crafty street smarts.  While everyone else in rehab was flunking out of school, I had straight A’s and was a top athlete in multiple sports.  I had the curse of the functioning addict, no matter how bad things got, I always found a way to feign the smile and point to my accomplishments as an example that I was okay and shouldn’t be there. 

The only thing they had over me was that I kept selling drugs and kept getting caught.  But those are stories for another day… 

Out of the 15 other kids there with me, they were all in bad shape.  No one was like me.  They couldn’t keep their shit together.  And I was living a lie because I was using the whole time.  And rehab knew I was using the whole time.  But all that mattered was timing those drug tests and not getting caught.  As long as I passed the tests, they couldn’t discipline me and I had my grades and sports as the golden tickets in my bag. 

“Look guys, everything is fine.  My grades are up and everything is A-OK with school, so I shouldn’t be here, right?  This is all one big misunderstanding?” 

Man, I was such a little fucking arrogant shit, spewing out bullshit like butter.  Because like I said before, there was only one goal, get the fuck out as soon as possible, no matter the cost. 

One thing that my rehab did that was pretty cool, every two weeks we’d get together with another local rehab and attend a 12-step meeting as a group.  We all looked forward to this, mostly for the hormones (you’re not allowed to hook-up with any of the girls in rehab or you get in trouble, we’re in there for treatment not to find our next relationship, right?), which makes it all the more fun. 

But what did make it worthwhile for me, besides the new ladies, was that I finally found a peer that I could relate to at this neighboring rehab. 

We’ll call him Sam, because every time I think of him it makes me sad.  So Sam seems like the closest name to sad that I can think of… 

Sam and I were inseparable when we’d get to hang out (at this age you don’t get to spend time together outside of rehab and 12-step meetings because the counselors are too worried you’ll start using together if you’re left to your own devices).  And boy did we have a blast together pushing the rules because he was just like me, smart, same sense of humor and charismatic. 

To put it bluntly, I respected him and considered him my equal.  As I mentioned before, I hadn’t come across someone like that in the recovery world, so I really began to look forward to these bi-weekly meetings to hang out with him. 

After only a few months we became close and began confiding in each other things we knew we couldn’t tell the other kids or counselors.  We both recognized that each of us was still using but we hadn’t flat out said it.  Things were inferred and we left it at that. 

Then one day Sam broke protocol and told me he was getting high.  He went on for a long time telling me about how he was struggling to hold it all together and he wasn’t sure how long he could keep up like this.  I listened silently wondering if I’d share in return.  When he was finally done, he asked me about myself.  How did I keep it all together? 

I wanted to tell him the truth… I really did.  But the words wouldn’t come.  It was still so ingrained in me to get out of rehab at all costs and not risk telling anyone anything that might jeopardize that.  I wouldn’t break, not for anyone… not even for Sam. 

“No,” I said.  “I’m just doing my time and then I’ll be back at it.  You just do whatever it takes to get to that point.” 

He probably nodded at me and stayed silent.  He had offered out a branch and I had refused.  Probably no point in pressing the matter.  I know I most likely followed it up with some tough guy line: 

“Don’t stress about it.  You’ll be fine.  You made it this far, right?” 

We stayed out there for a little while longer, the awkwardness lingering between us like something palpable you could reach out and touch.  Then we had one last cigarette before heading back into the meeting. 

That was the last time I saw him alive. 

A week went by before we heard the news.  Sam had committed suicide.  He hung himself in his bedroom.  That bit of reality was hard to take and a bitter pill to swallow, but the real hammer was just about to drop. 

Our rehab tried to leave it at that, a sudden tragedy and nothing more.  Let’s grieve and move on together.  But us kids, have a way of finding things out. 

A few days later we heard about the suicide letter.  The gist of what he wrote was: he was so tired of lying about using drugs and ashamed that he couldn’t beat his addiction, that he couldn’t go on living with himself.  The lies were tearing him apart.  That’s why he took his life. 

When I heard that, it was a knife to my heart.  It was as if he had written his letter directly to me. 

There are few moments in life, when you are given a chance to pivot and change your current trajectory forever.  This was one of them.  But I wasn’t ready.  I was just a 17-year-old kid and didn’t know how to react.  I was already too far gone, my emotions buried years ago and feelings turned to rock.  And this only hardened them.  What was once sandstone was now granite, impenetrable. 

I didn’t shed a single tear but I turned my anger inward.  I swallowed the pain and buried it deep down inside of me where no light could ever shine. 

I had only known Sam for less than six months.  I never attended the funeral or found out what his parents looked like.  But bonds in addiction form quickly and deeply.  I missed him dearly and the severing of this tie felt like cutting away a part of me. 

If you want to survive in this world, then you need to make amends with your past.  Healing can only come when the wound is cleansed. 

This was a long time ago and I don’t think about Sam often.  You can play the “what if” game dancing all the way to your grave but it won’t do any good.  What would have happened if I had spoken up that day with Sam?  Would things have turned out differently?  Maybe.  Maybe not. 

The point is, all we have is the present. 

It takes time to move on, it takes conscious effort and hard work to grieve.  And there are healthy ways to process emotions and also destructive ways to cheat your feelings.  All throughout my youth I always chose the destructive path.  I thought I was too tough to feel, but in retrospect I was too weak to heal. 

Just like you need to acknowledge the problem to address it, you have to do the same with a wound to mend it.  I like to talk about second chances on this blog, but the truth is that sometimes you don’t get one. 

However, what we always do get until our last chance is spent, is to choose how we respond. 

When faced with new crossroads, I always try to be of service and come from a place of gratitude.  I don’t always intervene in things, but more often than not, I do speak up… because you never know what’s going to happen… 

And sometimes, you only get one shot. 

-Q-FI 

P.S.  Did you ever have a moment in your life where you only got one shot?  Did you take it?  Or do you battle with regret? 

RIP – to the fallen, the ones whose light burnt out too soon.